It just so happens as I write this we are parted from the beautiful boy himself. However, I’ve been blessed with photographs and videos sent from afar, showing how happy Angus is. One such video Matt sent us was of Angus paddling at the beach!
Paddling! In water! Joyous as this was, we felt like we had ‘missed baby’s first steps’ … Our boy normally runs in the opposite direction to water and quivers at the thunderous sound of the waves.
As is typical of all babies/children – furry ones are no different – they play up to your sympathies when you’re around. They manipulate you into cuddles and affection with sad eyes and heart-wrenching whimpers. They lull you into thinking they can’t possibly survive without you.
And then they go off into the big wide world without you and they are perfectly fine! They paddle in the water, they play nicely with other children (uh hem…dogs).
As with children though, this is the sign of a happy, secure individual. The ones that run off without a kiss or a wave at nursery when mum’s standing at the door a shaking, crying mess. You did a great job. They are confident. They are safe. They are happy.
It’s at this point I remember. One year ago today we brought him home. A tiny black mysterious bundle of teeth and ears. Happy Adoption Day Angus. I hope you have had the best year of your life – so far
Next door’s chickens decided they wanted a change of scenery today. We found them pecking around in the long grass under the fruit trees quite oblivious to the ducks who had made camp further up the bank near the Macadamias.
I had a Reiki client and Peter was on a call. Angus was asleep in the house so all was well. Tranquil you might say.
Two hours later I was standing on the deck sipping a cool glass of water. With my client gone I wanted to take a few moments to give thanks for the energy that had flowed and the healing that had taken place. But my eye was drawn to Angus who had somehow found his way down to the fruit trees.
What is he doing? I watched in amusement as he seemed to be doing his downward facing dog routine. To my horror, I realised he was crouched down in front of a huge orange ball of feathers. Oh my God, Angus. Please – not the chickens …
I mean who could blame him? It’s only instinct after all …’Peter, that’s a chicken down there,” I yelled over my shoulder. “I’m going down.’ My heart was in my mouth. I didn’t particularly want to see the gory innards of a chicken, but if my boy had acted as nature dictated then I wanted to be the one who dealt with it. I felt a strange maternal urge to want to ‘protect’ Angus from what he had done – even though the notion repelled me.
I prepared myself for the worst case scenario. Guts, feathers, a glazed eye and lolling head as Angus tore into his kill. My heart was pounding …Oh please Angus, please don’t be a killer … I don’t want to have to be that neighbour that turns up holding a murdered chicken in their arms and a gleeful panting dog by my side, feathers still in mouth.
As I approached, Angus turned and wagged his tail and then he bowed down in front of the chicken again. He leant forward with his nose and oh so gently nudged the big orange bird. She responded with a few disgruntled clucks before looking at me, blinking. Angus backed away. He was doing all his best ‘play bow’ moves and was so gentle with the clucky girl it took my breath away. He cocked his head when she clucked, he gently reached out with his paw and backed away again. Every part of him was saying ‘play with me’.
The chicken stared up at me and then resumed her clucking as if she was tutting at the intrusion. I didn’t allow relief to sweep through me just yet though. I picked her up.
Now I should explain something here. I have never picked up a chicken in my life. Never. I’ve never even touched one when I think about it. Somehow nature took over though. Before I knew it I had the chatty girl cuddled into me and I swear she was happy. She chatted away as I strode up to the house. Better just giver her a once over before I take her home I thought.
A couple of weird things happened at that moment. A huge whoosh of love for Angus. My boy just wanted the chicken to play. He was so gentle with her. I mean, I have never seen a dog behave like that with a bird – and especially when those particular chickens normally flap and shout at him from across the boundary fence. That’s got to say something about his gentle nature. Of course, I’m not naive – at any moment he may have ‘accidentally’ stunned her with his massive paws – but his ‘intent’ was not to kill her. But more than that – I felt a huge surge of emotion for this big fat clucking hen. She seemed to actually enjoy being lifted up and carried. She had some weight to her too. Out of nowhere, I felt this huge affection – for a chicken! For goodness sake …
So turns out she was absolutely fine. She loved her adventure hanging out in my kitchen until I was 100% sure she was fine. Angus hadn’t harmed so much as a feather and the bird seemed totally fine. Fearless in fact. Satisfied all was well I took her back home. ‘Off you go now’ I said gently guiding her on her way. She called out to her fellow hens who all came rushing to see her – all eager to hear about her adventure no doubt.
Angus looked up at me with his great tongue lolling out the side of his mouth. ‘Good Boy Angus. You’re a very good boy.’ And for the second time that day I thanked the Universe.
There was mayhem from above and mayhem in the treetops at the bottom of the front paddock. A great noisy chirping air raid at 1 o’clock. I was standing out on the front deck, a cup of coffee clasped in hands, trying to get a better view on what was causing the commotion.
Those damn Noisy Miners were in a flap. They never cease to amaze me the way they ‘take on’ other birds. I can’t figure out if they are really brave and bolshy or whether they are just downright stupid. Either way, they are well named.
It wasn’t long before I discovered why they had become so agitated.
There was a great swoosh through the valley of the properties to the left of us. A bird with the wingspan of an Eagle was flying straight towards our property before it soared above the roof, turned to the left and swept down the sloop of the front paddock to the trees at the bottom. The Noisy Miners came out to surround and attack.
I rushed to grab my camera so I could take some shots for analysis later. I watched for some time, taking note of the shape of the wings and tail as well as its approximate size and colour. Definitely a bird of prey but which one? Luckily the winged beauty looped around the properties and through the valley about five times before it decided to head off again so I was able to capture a few images as she flew above me.
On screen it became obvious. We had been visited by a Square-tailed Kite. No wonder the Noisy Miners were in a flap.
While we were excited to see the Kite soaring around us it did call into question why we were only seeing her here now. Had her habitat been destroyed by the Rail Maintenance Facility development across the valley? It may have been purely co-incidental since the trees in the ‘war zone’ had only just been destroyed.
I wonder if we’ll see more of her. She would be more than welcome to soar through the skies in our little corner of the world. Maybe she could teach those Noisy Miners a few manners while she’s at it.
My daughter and I arrived in Australia in 2002. When I first came to this sunburnt land I had no idea what to expect other than what had been marketed to us peely wally pale Scots. I couldn’t wait for endless sunny days where I could plan a life outdoors – a life of BBQs and walks and maybe even a swim. Everyone in Neighbours and Home and Away seemed to have a swimming pool or go to the beach at the end of the day. What could be finer?
I also had another notion of Australia. I believed it to be a deeply spiritual place and I thought I would find a home for some of my more awakened interests. I was excited about the opportunity to learn about Aboriginal culture and perhaps learn about native plants and flowers and their healing benefits.
The only trouble was, I ended up in an area of Sydney that appeared to be devoid of indiginous culture. As time passed I began to realise, Aboriginals had been totally marginalised. From what I could gather these people were living on the peripheries of society and not seen as part of mainstream Australia at all. I was shocked by this. I had no idea Aboriginals were still suffering or still treated so appallingly. I felt ridiculously niaive and ill-informed and angry at the apathy and indifference shown by many of my Eastern Suburb neighbours.
Since then there has been the famous Apology to Australia’s Indigenous People (Rudd, 2008). Amongst the mistreatment, the most famous is perhaps the Stolen Generation and that is something I am keenly interested in (for reasons I will explain in another post later down the track).
Five years on from our own landing on Australian soil, and our dream of a new life hit a snag. The man-child (now ex) husband and I went through a particularly nasty (protracted) break up meaning my daughter and I ended up in a woman’s refuge for 3 months – over Christmas. Even to this day it’s something I feel a great deal of shame about – though I’m not sure why I’m the one that feels shamed. I was obviously not such a great judge of character as I thought I was at that time – but hey we learn BIG painful lessons – we do our best to move on!
I mention this sorry episode in my life because it was while we were in the refuge that I met Jeda, an Aboriginal woman. She had the most beautiful little baby you’ve ever seen and we became ‘loosely’ acquainted. It’s hard to make friends in what is hopefully a transient situation but I would sit next to her in the evenings and talk. My daughter would take turns holding the baby and it it was actually quite a bonding time in a way – as women I guess.
Jeda taught me about what the Aboriginal flag meant and she told me about the different tribes and the language that was all but dying out. There was much in her story I empathised with – how the Scots feel about British rule and subjugation – it’s a story that many of us can relate to, and yet Aboriginals have suffered more than most.
The last thing I want to do is offend anyone, and I don’t want to be some ‘ white girl that thinks she understands anything about what the Aboriginals have gone through’ but I remain fascinated by such an ancient culture and I would love to learn what I can about the true essence of what it meant to be Aboriginal, particularly their spiritual story.
I’m very lucky that since those days I learned to be a better judge of character and met my Mr P. Now we live on the Central Coast and I feel it’s only right that I learn a bit about the Darkinjung people who live in this area. I say ‘it’s only right’ but it’s more than that – it’s a respect thing – and I am genuinely interested.
I can’t help but feel the Aboriginal Spirit around me on this property, so I feel compelled to respect and honour the land we are on. I truly believe the Aboriginals have much to teach us about the land we live on – if we would only let them.
As a little girl, one of my biggest fantasies was to have my own horse.
I loved the smell of their flaring, velvet noses, their huge melting brown eyes and the way they hung their heads so gracefully over the fence. I felt that I understood horses somehow – I don’t know why I felt that way. A meeting of minds and a melting of hearts.
I remember begging mum for a horse.
“Pleee-eeaaaasse mum.”
“But where would we keep a horse?” she would say in her practical voice.
“In the back garden of course,” I would say in my ‘isn’t it obvious?’ voice.
I would follow mum’s gaze as she looked out the window. She didn’t have to say anything. I knew there wasn’t enough grass for a horse to stand on, let alone live out there. I knew there would never be a time where I would have a horse in the back garden – a pipe dream if ever there was one.
Parts of my life were interspersed with tantalising experiences of horses as if I was forever doomed to be on the other side of the paddock fence looking in.
One such occasion was when my gran and granddad took me to London for a wedding. We stayed with some relatives who had a huge house and extensive ‘grounds’. I soon figured out the daughter of these relatives had a horse.
“Can I ride it?” I asked excitedly.
“No,” she said bluntly.
I felt deeply hurt. She didn’t even let my dream live for a single second.
The years rolled by and I contented myself by watching Champion the Wonder Horse or reading about the adventures of the Silver Brumby and then Silver Brumby’s Daughter by Elyn Mitchell. I had no idea at the time these books were set in Australia – it was all about the horses for me. Nowadays, it seems amazing that I was so enthralled by these books, like a foreshadowing of a life that was to follow in Australia. On a recent trip through the Snowy Mountains on the back of a motorbike, our path was blocked by wild Brumbies meandering in front and to the side of us. I think I may have screeched with excitement.
Fast forward a few… umm… decades and the most amazing thing has happened. As you know by now, we moved to a home surrounded by paddocks, cattle and horses and even an alpaca. I was happy enjoying the surrounds and hearing the sounds of horses neighing and whinnying across the valley – and then the most fantastic thing happened. Two new stallions came to town.
At the bottom of our drive, there is an old dairy farm. The farmer is getting on in years so now he keeps a few cows and a beautiful sweetheart of a bull. One day driving past we noticed the cows had been moved further back and in their place – two stallions (in adjoining paddocks). More screeching.
“Do you think they need someone to help them look after their horses?” I asked Peter hopefully.
“You never know darling.”
If you haven’t guessed by now Peter is now the one I pester every now and then, regarding the keeping of horses in the back garden. He’s pretty adept at fielding these requests. He’s also very good at humouring me just enough to keep my dreams alive.
Long story short – Peter actually began talking with the owner of the two stallions.
The woman in question is good friends with the farmer and she needed somewhere to keep a couple of her horses. It sounded like she had to travel most days to come and feed them, splitting her time between other horses stabled elsewhere.
They met again a couple of times, mainly as a result of Angus’s daily walks. We would often take him past the farmer’s field and we would use it as a socialising exercise (he’s terrified of horses so were gently introducing him to them at a safe distance for all concerned). On one of these walks, Peter mentioned his wife would probably enjoy helping her if she ever needed anyone. No sooner said, than done. Yes, she was indeed looking for someone to help her feed one of the horses!
As you can imagine, this has meant Peter has once again excelled himself and has earned maximum Brownie points – yet again.
On a side note, after doing some family tree research, I discovered a significant Irish connection on both sides of the family. (I’ve grown up knowing nothing about my family which I’ll go into some other time). I discovered my great-grandmother was Irish and I spied something very interesting on her marriage certificate. It turns out my Irish great, great grandfather was – wait for it – a horse trainer!
It breaks my heart to think of any animal being abused or hurt in any way. I mean it actually does affect me deeply on an emotional level. I can’t bear it. I only wish I was made of tougher stuff because recently I’ve been reading about various cruelties inflicted on chickens and it’s enough to give anyone nightmares. How in the world have we allowed (and continue to allow) these things to happen?
I’ll apologise in advance – I don’t want to be one of those activists thrusting confronting images in front of my friends on Facebook. That in itself is cruel and makes people shut down. I know myself if I see an article or photograph depicting cruelty to an animal I scroll right past it quickly – not because I don’t care – because I can’t bear it!
Why do I mention cruelty to chickens? Well, I’m in the midst of some research, preparing the way for some chickens of our own. We both decided we wanted to give a home to some ex-battery hens – hens that had been saved from their cages and just needed a loving home to relax without the pressure of having to lay hundreds of eggs.
And boy oh boy, since reading about rescue hens I’ve learned a great deal.
I’d never heard of de-beaking (it makes me cringe just to think of it). I didn’t know all the male chickens were killed at birth and I certainly didn’t realise that hens are slaughtered by the time they reach the ripe old age of 18 months. I love eggs and prefer chicken to red meat but I am horrified I have been a party to these cruelties.
Many of us buy Organic or Free Range eggs in the belief that these eggs are somehow ‘better’ because the hens are not in cages, but the truth is even those hens are de-beaked and still don’t have the best lives. I had naively thought of them running around a farm quite happily but the truth is far from the fairy tale I convinced myself of.
If we do commit to rescuing a few ex-battery hens, these girls are going to need healing and real care. It won’t be just a case of ‘ah don’t worry you don’t need to lay eggs anymore’ – many of them are sick because their little bodies have been through so much.
Once we’ve given a home to a few of these ladies and nursed them back to health, we might get a couple of birds to lay (at their leisure – if they felt so inclined). I’m excited about learning something new, though I felt it was important to face some of the realities we’ll be encountering. We owe it to our feathered friends. I just hope I’m up to the job.
It breaks my heart to think of any animal being abused or hurt in any way. I mean it actually does affect me deeply on an emotional level. I can’t bear it. I only wish I was made of tougher stuff because recently I’ve been reading about various cruelties inflicted on chickens and it’s enough to give anyone nightmares. How in the world have we allowed (and continue to allow) these things to happen?